Looking around, perhaps due to the impending visit of the Spear Saint of the Great Snow Hut to the Eastern Yue Sword Pool tomorrow, the customers in Qingmei Fang today were mostly those who exuded an air of untamed ferocity, like hidden dragons crossing the river. Only a few, like the couple at the table, were ordinary townsfolk. However, restrained by the centuries-old prestige of the Sword Pool, these formidable figures kept their arrogance in check.
Though the Liyang court still nominally allowed the carrying of weapons, many regional governors and prefects, sensing the changing tides, had already “arbitrarily” issued orders prohibiting martial artists from openly bearing arms within their jurisdictions—or at least requiring them to wrap their weapons in cloth.
However, no high-ranking officials like military governors or provincial commanders had yet taken such measures. Instead, officials from the Ministries of Justice, Rites, and War had submitted memorials advocating not only a strict ban but also a large-scale confiscation of weapons among martial artists, along with prohibiting private vendettas. Due to the overly aggressive wording, the court, fearing backlash from local factions, had temporarily shelved the proposal.
In truth, given the precedent set by the old Liang King’s suppression of the martial world, no one in the new Liyang dynasty considered such measures difficult to enforce. Yet, a significant number of officials raised objections, arguing that while the Northern Mang remained unconquered, the Central Plains needed time to recover. Stirring up unnecessary trouble now would be unwise. Ultimately, the emperor decreed during a minor court session that the matter could be postponed for two or three years.
The woman stared at the pair as if seeing ghosts in broad daylight, scrutinizing them carefully but utterly failing to grasp their relationship.
Liyang women had numerous hairstyles, but there was an unspoken chasm between those worn by married women and young maidens. Wearing the wrong style was as grave a mistake as a monk donning Daoist robes. Thus, it was rare for a maiden to wear a married woman’s bun or vice versa. The woman holding her daughter currently wore the *Panhuan* bun, a style favored by noblewomen and commoners alike in the southern regions. Originating among aristocratic women in the capital, it had spread widely through Jiangnan, prized for its dignified simplicity—unremarkable yet “flawless,” suitable for any banquet, high or low.
Beside her, Xu Baozao had switched from yesterday’s double-loop bun to today’s *Chuilian* bun, characterized by silk ribbons binding the cascading hair, often adorned with jewels. However, Xu Baozao, short on funds and unwilling to borrow from that *Xu* fellow to buy expensive silk ornaments, had merely tied her hair with a plain red ribbon, devoid of any embellishments. At a glance, she looked like a poor maidservant, suggesting that the young master beside her hailed from a modest local gentry family—one that could barely afford servants but was far from wealthy enough to “spoil” them.
The middle-aged Confucian scholar, whom Song Tingquan had called shameless, pointed at his own nose as if hearing the greatest joke. “Me? Shameless? Little girl, do you know the penalty for slandering a court official under Liyang law?”
Before Ye Geng could intervene, the trembling Song Tingquan blurted out, “I don’t care about your laws or your rank! This is the Sword Pool’s territory. Forget Fulu Town—for hundreds of miles around, everyone has lived under the Song family’s grace for centuries!”
The young maiden, humiliated by a rogue on her first outing, grew even more furious, her voice rising sharply. “Who do you think you are? How dare you strut around like this in front of me?!”
The man laughed heartily, clapping his hands. “Oh, this is rich!”
He turned to the languidly drinking young man beside him, masking his obsequiousness poorly. “Lord Li, judging by this girl’s tone, it seems the Sword Pool’s family rules outweigh the laws of Liyang itself, no?”
The handsome young master, whose jade-like face bore neither sword nor jade but instead a delicate deer-antler pendant tied with a red string—an eccentric touch even among pretentious aesthetes—stroked the antler under the table while raising his cup. With a thick Liaodong accent, he grinned and said, “Seems that way to me.”
Bolstered by this “imperial decree,” the middle-aged man turned back to the bewildered Song Tingquan, his voice dripping with malice. “Girl, if I’m not mistaken, your surname is Song?”
Though sheltered, Song Tingquan was no fool—raised in a family hailed as “kings of the martial world,” she recognized the man’s insidious intent. Realizing the danger, she bit her tongue despite her fury, refusing to speak further.
Ye Geng bowed solemnly. “Children’s words carry no harm, sir. Must you hold a grudge against a junior?”
The man’s eyes narrowed to slits as they lingered on the girl’s budding figure. “This matter can be big or small—it depends on your sincerity in making amends.”
Ye Geng asked, “What if I drink three cups in my friend’s stead?”
The young master at the neighboring table scoffed silently.
The seasoned official understood the cue and shook his head. “You? Young man, no offense, but you’re not qualified to drink this wine.”
After a pause, Ye Geng said gravely, “I am Ye Geng, of the Fulong Ye clan.”
The man blinked, glancing at his superior.
The young master chuckled. “Such words might carry weight—if your father becomes Assistant Director of the Left Spring Office. But let me offer you southerners some advice: compete in anything, but never compare your fathers’ ranks with us Liaodong men.”
Ye Geng’s face paled. A Liaodong youth who knew his father’s impending promotion was not someone a minor branch of the Ye clan could afford to offend—unless he himself passed the imperial exams and entered the Hanlin Academy as a “Little Yellow Gate.”
With the Liang faction dominating the court, who could counterbalance them? The high-ranking southern officials, mostly civil ministers, lacked the influence to truly suppress the Liang faction’s arrogance. As for the northern generals who had followed the emperor to the capital, many were either busy earning merits on the northern front or had already returned, sharing camaraderie with the Liang border troops. How could they turn against their former comrades? Thus, the court relied on Liaodong’s rough-edged nobility—men coarser than the refined southern elites, unafraid to clash verbally or even physically with the Liang faction. Though they often lost in debates and always in brawls, they still fared better than the timid southern officials, who sulked like resentful wives.
Since the new emperor’s ascension, from the six ministries to the capital garrisons, the court had been lively indeed—new faces, new energy.
Xu Baozao, well-versed in court politics, whispered, “This man’s family might be one of the ‘Eight Noble Houses of Liaodong’ who entered the capital during the Xiangfu era.”
Xu Fengnian smiled. “Not might—definitely one of the ‘Eight Dukes.'”
Xu Baozao frowned. “How can you be so sure?”
“Want to bet?”
“Of course! What’s the wager?”
Xu Fengnian drained the last of his homemade plum wine and wiped his lips. “Never mind.”
Xu Baozao nearly choked on her fury, but before she could retaliate, an abrupt disturbance seized the attention of everyone in Qingmei Fang. A female swordsman of middling beauty had appeared ten paces away between the two tables, her thumb resting on her sword hilt.
Where she stood, sword energy followed.
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